Read Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont for Free Online

taxi, if you like,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t cost too much from here.’
    ‘I should be so grateful,’ she said, feeling exhausted.
    At last she was able to take in her surroundings – a bare deal table with books, a gas-fire turned low, a dark suit hanging on the back of the door. The curtains did not meet properly across the window and were pinned together with two large safety-pins.
    ‘It was lucky I was here,’ the young man – Ludo -said. ‘I had only just got back from work. Was just pulling the curtains together.’
    ‘Where
do
you work?’ she asked, making an effort at conversation.
    ‘In Harrods.’
    The kettle began to sing on the gas-ring, and he brought out a tin mug for himself. The mug had a Union Jack printed on it. The young, Mrs Palfrey hadnoted often with surprise, had a passion for the Union Jack. All those long-haired, long-skirted girls seemed to carry Union Jack carrier-bags. She had wondered if they were sincere – and if it was quite suitable even so.
    ‘Which department of Harrods?’ she asked.
    ‘Oh, no, I don’t work
for
Harrods. I work
at
Harrods. In the Banking Hall. I take my writing and a few sandwiches there. It’s nice and warm and they’re such comfortable chairs. And I save lighting this gas-fire, which eats up money. Milk?’ He held up a bottle, and she bowed in acceptance. The bottle was half-full and had a curdy deposit up its neck.
    ‘You are a writer?’ she asked.
    ‘Well, at present that’s what I’m trying to be, although I
have
had other jobs.’ Gallantly, but reluctantly she felt, he turned up the gas-fire, stood staring down at it, his hands round his mug of tea. Such eyelashes! Mrs Palfrey thought – they threw a long shadow down his cheek-bones, and when he turned to smile at her, she thought his face mischievous, crinkled by a slight smile; his eyes narrowed considering her, almost as if he had hit on a joke to play on her. The word ‘glee’ came to her mind. There was glee in him, and she was both fascinated and uneasy.
    ‘I am keeping you from your writing,’ she said, putting down her cup. Her knee was beginning to hurt, and she was worried now about that dirty towel.
    ‘I’ve been working all day. I told you that, Mrs Palfrey ma’am,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to have a little read and open a tin of something.’
    He was obviously hard-up and hungry, as she had wistfully thought her grandson might have been.
    ‘You have been so kind,’ she said. ‘But now I feel that I could make a move.’ She shifted her leg stiffly.
    ‘Then I’ll pop round the corner and whistle up a cab.’
    He drained his mug and made off. She heard him tearing up the area steps and along the pavement. Listening to his footsteps dying away, she sat back and thought of her adventure, and she went on to imagine him after she had left here, turning down the gas-fire and opening a tin of something.
    Presently she heard the taxi draw up and Ludo running down the steps. She had her speech all ready. ‘I should be delighted if you would have dinner with me at the Claremont one evening. I should like to repay your kindness in some way.’
    He looked quite astounded at the idea – really appalled; and then the look of glee came back into his eyes.
    ‘Well, that would be very grand;’ he said.
    ‘Would Saturday suit you? On Saturday, there is usually a rather better menu.’
    ‘Saturday would be lovely.’
    He helped her up the steps and into the taxi and when it had driven off, he returned to his room and, leaning over the table, wrote in a notebook ‘fluffy grey knickers … elastic … veins on leg colour of grapes … smell of lavender water (ugh!) … big spots on back of shiny hands and more veins – horizontal wrinkles across hands.’
    Then he turned down the gas-fire and began to open a tin of spaghetti.

    Mrs Palfrey managed to get to the lift without meeting anyone. She went to her room and felt sick and shaky, unsticking the handkerchief from her